


Something Scary

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Touched By the Hand of God [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Epistolary, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Medical Procedures, Needles, Post-Finale, discussion of suicide, psychiatric hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 16:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19299331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Your tax dollars at work.





	1. What A Drag It Is, Getting Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> On the occasion of the natal anniversary of MillicentCordelia, if a bit prematurely. Happy birthday, MillicentCordelia!  
> The title of this story comes from the song by Zsa Zsa Laboum of the same name. The chapter titles come from, variously, Mother's Little Helper, by the Rolling Stones; Eaten by the Monster of Love, by Sparks; the movie of the same name, starring Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon.  
> Now, I still steadfastly refuse to watch the series finale, so the narrative framework of this story is based on what I've read about the Gotham of ten years in the future, and my reaction to it.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based on are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Name: Jervis Leland Tetch  
Sex: Male  
Date of Birth: 10.06.89  
Social Security Number: None  
Place of Birth: Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada  
Address: None  
Phone number: None  
Next of Kin: None

The lady behind the glass taps at her keyboard, and a moment later, a robot voice intones, “Is this correct?”  
Jervis leans closer to the glass. “Surely, this is a pointless formality. Everyone here already knows me.”  
The robot voice: “Mark yes, or no. If no, please enter the corrections on the tablet.”  
The lady may not be able to hear, but she can read lips. “Please look into my eyes, my dear, and all will be made clear.”  
The lady rolls her eyes. Looking at the ceiling, she types. The voice: “Yes, or no.”  
Sighing, Jervis picks up the stylus attached to the tablet, which is, itself, anchored to the counter, and marks the box with a ‘y’ next to it.  
The voice: “Thank you. Please exit through the door at your left.”  
A door opens. Followed by two orderlies and a large man with a shotgun, Jervis enters a corridor. It leads to a doctor’s office. The doctor signs to the orderlies, and one takes her place at a computer. The doctor pats a hospital gown on the examining table, then unwinds a curtain around it to give Jervis his privacy while he disrobes.  
It’s farcical.  
He preferred the old way of doing things. A grimacing death’s head shoved a striped uniform at you, and if you refused to change into it, you got a fist in the gut. Politesse is out of place in Arkham. It stinks here, like a turd in a flower bed. Jervis folds his clothes, and places them on the examining table. He draws the curtain.  
The doctor signs to the orderly at the computer. Comes another robot voice: “Please sit.”  
Jervis sits. The doctor takes his pulse, places her hand on his chest and back as he breathes deeply, gently presses on his belly. She checks his eyes, his nose, his ears, the inside of his mouth.  
“Please bend over,” says the robot voice.  
The doctor checks that, as well.  
She changes her gloves, and palpates his neck. She turns, and signs to the orderly.  
“What is the scar on your neck.” The robot voice doesn’t differentiate between a statement and a question.  
“Detective Gordon, quite incensed, with an implement made a dent,” Jervis says. The doctor carefully keeps her eyes on his mouth.  
“A dent,” says the robot.  
Jervis sighs. “He stabbed me in the neck, some… fifteen years ago.”  
“Any difficulty speaking, swallowing, or breathing.”  
“No,” says Jervis.  
The doctor signs to the orderly. “When was your last tetanus booster.”  
“I can’t recall.”  
The robot: “We’ll give you one now.”  
Jervis looks down. The sight of his own legs, crossed at the ankle, is jarring. He looks to the side. “I’d rather not.”  
The robot: “If it’s been more than ten years you are due.”  
Jervis looks at the man with the shotgun. “On with the show,” Jervis says, and tries to smile.  
“You may experience some pain in your arm for a few days,” says the robot. “Alert a member of staff if you feel feverish, dizzy, or nauseous. Your vaccination record is missing, so you’ll be kept in medical quarantine until you have all your shots. Any chronic medical problems.”  
It takes Jervis a moment to realize that it’s a question. “I catch cold easily,” he mutters.  
“Substance abuse problems.”  
He shakes his head. “No.”  
“Family history of disease.”  
“Surely, you’re aware of the virus my sister had.”  
“I will take a blood sample. Please hold out your arm.”  
For four test tubes of his blood, he’s rewarded with a cup of orange juice and a few graham crackers. None of it tastes like anything.  
The robot: “I’ll see you again soon for your other vaccinations. Once we’re sure that you are not a health risk to the other patients, you’ll be transferred into the general population. Please follow the orderlies out.”  
“My clothes.”  
The robot: “There are clean clothes in your room.”  
The clothes are, at least, clean. No more Arkham stripes; these are plain, in drab colors. Once Jervis is dressed, the orderlies take away the hospital gown. The orderlies exit the room, followed by the guard, a neon pink earplug visible when he turns around. The door is closed. The door is latched. The bed is firm. The room is too bright. The walls are bare.

In the morning, Jervis is escorted to a bathroom to shower. He isn’t allowed anything sharp or pointed, so a barber shaves him, then cuts his hair.  
“Is this necessary?” Jervis asks.  
The barber doesn’t answer.  
Once a week for a month, he’s given a different shot in the infirmary. He’s judged to have high blood pressure and the beginning of diabetes, so he’s put on a special diet.  
“This has to be a mistake,” he tells the doctor, “though, I confess that I am fond of cake.”  
The robot says, “We’re trying to keep you from developing it.”  
“I’m not fat,” he protests.  
“You don’t have to be,” counters the robot. “These are serological markers they have nothing to do with your appearance. You also have a vitamin D and vitamin C deficiency.”  
Once a day, Jervis is escorted to a room that houses a treadmill and nothing else. There, he walks in place for fifteen minutes under the supervision of an armed guard.  
“Arthritis,” says the robot.  
“I don’t have arthritis,” Jervis balks.  
“In your right hand. The bones were not reset properly. You have deformities.”  
Jervis clutches his right hand in his left. “I’m sure you don’t need to be told, but I am not yet forty-five years old.”  
“It hurts when it’s cold or rainy,” the robot accuses.  
“Not so very much,” Jervis murmurs, “just a touch.”  
“We can give you something for that.”  
Jervis sits up straight. “No, thank you.”  
Everyday, they bring him a newspaper. Once he’s read it, he folds the pages into shapes. At the end of the day, someone takes them away. He finds a photo that he likes, carefully tears it out, but this is taken from him, as well.  
“Quarantine,” says the orderly.  
After month, Jervis is escorted from his room down a long corridor to another long corridor lined in doors. A door is opened. The orderly motions for Jervis to enter. He does. The door is closed. The door is latched. It is exactly the same as the room he’s just left.  
Every other day, an orderly comes by with a trolley of books, followed by the ever-present armed guard. Jervis picks the first book he sees, just because the author’s name is Alice.  
The tale is thin. It’s a mystery, its solution obvious fifty pages in. Still, Jervis continues. What else is there to do?  
He’s escorted to another office. On the door, there is a significant name.  
“Dr. Thompkins,” he gasps, at seeing her, all same.  
She smiles. It is a smile utterly without character or flavor.  
“Your new hairstyle suits you,” he says. Reflexively, he puts his hand to the back of his head, runs it down the shorn surface. “Unfortunately, my own hair was hewn.”  
“A new regulation,” says Dr. Thompkins. Maturity has slowed her, but not so as to give the impression of indolence or dullness. No. She has the quality of a machine being gradually cranked. Not out of caution, but for the sake of precision. Though they’re indoors, she wears gloves of red leather. It’s quite striking.  
“Do tell.”  
She motions for him to sit, and he does. “Arkham’s changed since you were here last,” she says.  
“I noticed.”  
“The emphasis is no longer on punishment, but rehabilitation. Part of that is encouraging the patients to see this as an extension of the outside world. We help you develop a routine, and stick to it. We have a degree program, now. We have classes in life skills, technical education.”  
“Quite the little model train village,” Jervis says, “with you as its conductress.”  
She smiles again. “That’s a way of looking at it, I guess.”  
“So, why, Doctor, am I here?”  
“We don’t have to discuss history, Jervis. In fact, I’m more interested in where you’re going than where you’ve been. I already know where you’ve been.”  
“True,” he says, and tries to smile.  
“I’d like to know what you want to get out of Arkham. What can we do for you?”  
He laughs. “That, you must know, without a doubt: you can let me out.”  
“Other than that.” She looks, Jervis decides, amused. Of course, he knows where she’s been, too. Fifteen years is a long time, and since arriving here, he’s had many idle hours to pore over newspapers, even the occasional magazine. It was like learning his own history, without having fully lived it. Dr. Leslie Thompkins injected herself with a sample of Alice’s virus. After the city had been rebuilt, all was known: even after inoculation, the virus had dwelt in her blood. She’d done strange things, unreasonable things, mad things. They’d called her Queen of the Narrows. She’d gotten involved with Edward Nygma, The Riddler, and robbed banks. Her career as a gangster had led to her doom. The madman, Dr. Strange, resurrected her, as he’d done so many other poor souls, in the process deranging her further. Eventually, she was wiped clean of all madness. The board of health told everyone so, and with James Gordon by her side, who could doubt it? She returned to university, received a certification in psychiatry. Coming to Arkham was not so much a new direction as a return; for it was here where she’d worked many years earlier, when the asylum was first reopened. Now, she’s the head of psychiatry. The Queen of Arkham, some publications call her. Sneering. With an admiration that is ill-concealed.  
“Do you miss it?” he asks her.  
“What’s that?”  
“The beat of blood and brain; the call to wreck and rage. My sister’s guiding light, spurring you on to violent delights.”  
“It’s a sickness,” she says, too gently, too kindly.  
She misses it, he decides. It makes it easier to speak to her. “What do I want? Well, that, I think, remains to be seen.”  
“You have such a way with words. Maybe a literary career is in your future. Can I do anything else for you?” she asks.  
“I can’t think of anything to ask of you. It’s left, I suppose, for our next rendezvous.”  
“I only do the in-take interviews. A doctor will be assigned to you, though, and you can discuss your aspirations, your concerns, anything you’d like, with them.”  
He feels himself frown. “Oh.”  
“I’ve judged you to be security risk, so you’re in the restricted unit. You have limited privileges, unless I decide that you’re an immediate danger to others. After that, it’s probation. Two offenses, and I put you in solitary, permanently. Do you understand?”  
“Yes.”  
“All right, Jervis,” she says, and closes the open file on her desk. “It was nice to see you again.”  
Feeling dazed, he murmurs, “Likewise.”

Once a week, he’s allowed to visit the library. It’s at an odd time, because he isn’t allowed to mix with the other patients in an unstructured environment. He only gets an hour, but the orderly with the trolley of books still visits him, so he spends his time in the library reading archived newspapers. A lot of it was already known to him, if not the details then the broad strokes, if not the cause then the effect, but some of it comes as a surprise. Apparently, Arkham’s change in character is the doing of Dr. Thompkins, Bruce Wayne, and that unlikeliest of characters, Barbara Kean. All three would seem to have reinvented themselves. Nothing sticks to them. Not crime, not madness, not violence, not disregard for authority, not pain, not even their own history, it seems. Are they lucky, for this, or unlucky?  
Unlucky, Jervis decides.  
Gordon was made commissioner, which Jervis did not know. On cue, Jervis feels a pang in his right hand. Sofia Falcone awoke from a coma, to the indifference of everyone other than Harvey Dent, who has sworn to reopen the investigation by the District Attorney’s office into organized crime. Another bee in Dent’s bonnet is the return of the Maroni crime family, headed by Salvatore Maroni, Jr. The names don’t mean very much to Jervis; such things have never really interested him. Cobblepot was put away, in Blackgate, but has emerged, appearing none the worse for wear. Nygma is up to his old tricks. The papers claim bafflement, but any fool could recognize his handiwork. Mr. Freeze is still at large, and Firefly. The papers claim that Ivy Pepper, now Poison Ivy, has been captured, brought to Arkham, though Jervis can’t imagine how they would hold her. The thief called the Cat has the well-heeled installing floodlights and electrified fences, hiring armed security guards. A new character’s appeared, possibly called Jack. There is more news of the Bat. He must be a sight to see, Jervis thinks, somewhat wistfully. To be corralled by such a creature must be glorious, even as a defeat. Jervis was picked up by uniformed officers for sleeping under a bridge. It was only after the police officers took his fingerprints that all was known. Jervis’ dime store lawyer was useless against the mighty Harvey Dent- running for District Attorney, the papers inform Jervis, and known to be in line with the mental health initiative designed by Dr. Thompkins, enforced by Commissioner Gordon, financed by Bruce Wayne and Barbara Kean. “No contest,” the lawyer told him to say. “Nolo contendere,” Jervis declared. The judge looked at him with yawning indifference, and scratched her nose. She might have been scratching her twat. She raised her eyebrows, and agreed with Dent’s assessment that Jervis should be sent to Arkham for evaluation.  
Home again, home again. Market is done.  
Under the watchful eye of half a dozen armed security guards, Jervis is allowed to attend art therapy. The purpose of this, Jervis can’t say, but he finds it strangely soothing to again make papier mache hats. Even if he’s not allowed to wear them. Hats are prohibited.  
Jervis sighs.  
He surveys the room, looks over his classmates. He’s never really looked at them before. What was the point? It’s a new group every time, and their faces all blur together.  
But.  
Dark blond hair.  
Glasses.  
A nose and cheekbones that are more prominent with each year that passes.  
Jervis has seen only one photo of Gerald Crane.  
But here is the face again.  
As though he feels the sudden, heated weight of Jervis’ gaze, as though the air between them sizzles, Jonathan looks up.  
Jonathan.  
Jonathan now looks almost exactly like his father.  
Jervis raises his hand.  
“Put your hand down, Tetch,” says one of the orderlies.  
“It’s simply to ask if I may be permitted to change my seat.”  
The orderly shrugs. “Sure.”  
Jonathan is alone at his table. Perhaps he was waiting.  
He was, Jervis decides, waiting.  
“Jonathan,” Jervis says, not even trying to conceal the gladness in his voice. “Mr. Crane,” he says more soberly, “you must realize my joy at seeing you again.”  
“Mr. Tetch,” Jonathan says in the stiff way he has, but with a note, a note that only Jervis could apprehend, of fondness. It strikes within Jervis. A secret chord that is within him, tucked. So many years unplucked. “It’s been too long.”  
“Far, far too long,” Jervis says, feeling something well up inside of him. “I missed you. I missed you terribly. If I may presume, I think that you missed me.”  
“I did. And here we are, now, again, together.”  
“I wondered what became of you. I feared-”  
“No. Not death. Only this.”  
“How long have you been in this place?”  
“For a while, I was somewhere else, but when they reopened Arkham three years ago, they transferred me here.”  
“I looked for you,” Jervis pleads, “I did.”  
“I know. It was my own fault. I was careless. This is where they take the careless.”  
“Where do they keep you?”  
“In the ‘B’ wing. I’m a security risk, but not a serious risk.”  
Jervis smiles. “They don’t know you like I know you.”  
Looking to the side, Jonathan smiles, very slightly. You would miss it if you didn’t know what to look for. “I have a roommate,” Jonathan says. “He snores. You never snored.”  
Jervis smiles. “Yes, I did.”  
“Somehow, it never bothered me,” Jonathan says absently.  
After that, Jervis knows.  
He knows what he has to do.  
He asks to see Dr. Thompkins.  
She can give him five minutes, a week from Monday.  
It is, he knows, a test. A stupid test, to see if he can behave himself, to see if he can swallow his pride, his anger, his longing, the very blood in his veins, the marrow of his bones, stuff down everything inside of him that clamors to be free- like a normal person would.  
“Thank you very much,” he tells the orderly who gives him the message.  
There is no puzzle, foe or test that Jervis cannot best.  
He goes to the library. He reads everything in the archive about Gerald Crane. He leaves frowning, a peculiar pain in his chest.  
He goes to art therapy. He sits quietly next to Jonathan. He leaves feeling warmed, as though by the sun.  
He tells his assigned psychiatrist things that the doctor already knows.  
He eats his bland, colorless food.  
He takes his blood pressure medication.  
He walks on the treadmill at a brisk pace, as though to the house of a friend.  
“What can I do for you, Jervis?” asks Dr. Thompkins.  
“You are,” he says, “first and foremost, a scientist.”  
“What else would I be?”  
“A guidance counselor. A glorified nursemaid. A holder of hands, a wiper of noses. Now, what could I give the scientist, one supposes?”  
“Please speak plainly, Jervis.”  
“You may be content to believe that you’ve shaken off my sister’s influence, but part of you still craves it. Not submission, though, not for Lee, but mastery. You want to understand the malady that forced your hand.”  
“And?”  
“The doctor look blood samples from me, but even I know that this isn’t the only thing that reveals a person’s history. Bone marrow. Spinal fluid. X-rays. Think of how much you could learn from these things.”  
Lowering her eyelids, she smiles. “What do you think you can get out of me, Jervis?”  
“For one thing, and one thing alone, would I trade the secrets of my flesh and bone.”  
“What?”  
“Let me live with Jonathan Crane.” ‘Live’ is sufficiently close to ‘lie’ to please Jervis. Only the ‘v’ changes the word. The ‘v’, like a mouth viewed from the side. The lines of a ribcage. The juncture of the thighs.  
“You want me to let two serial killers be roomies.”  
“Please don’t be flippant, Dr. Thompkins,” he says. He is, he finds, truly distressed.  
Understanding. She knows the answer, so she asks the question. “Why?” It’s in a very hard voice that she asks it. Hard, because she understands. Her understanding demands it.  
“He’s my friend.”  
Something passes through her. She’s pleased to be right, but she’s also alarmed by what she divined. These, her creatures in Arkham, are pathetic. To know the mind of such a creature is a matter of professional pride, but what is it to know the heart of such a creature? It is, he knows, as much bewilderment and disgust as it is pity. “You know the rules about fraternization between patients.”  
“A measure put in place for the sake of hygiene,” he scoffs. “As neither of us can get in trouble, and neither of us has had a venereal disease, and the very point of my request is exclusivity, I fail to see why it should make a difference in this case.”  
“Just to make sure that I understand, you and Jonathan Crane were lovers-”  
“Are,” he says.  
“Are lovers, and you want to be his roommate strictly for the purpose of continuing your romantic relationship.”  
“Why else?”  
“You and he broke out of Arkham with Jerome Valeska. You terrorized the city. For years.”  
Jervis doesn’t smile. He wants to, so he knows that it would spell his doom. “Dr. Thompkins, as my arthritis and high blood pressure would inform you if they could, I am not a well man. You are, I’m sure, aware of how I came to be in this place.”  
She sighs. She looks… sad. She looks, also, he thinks, for just a second, afraid. Not of him. Of something else. How curious.  
“Chronology aside,” he says, “I am no longer young. My race is run. My hell-raising days are done. If it is as I fear, and I will not be leaving here, what harm could be done by allowing me to spend my term with someone I love?”  
There. There is fear again. Not just curious. Fascinating. Entrancing. Jervis hopes that it will be she who takes the required samples. It will hurt, he knows, but to suffer at her hand, to see more of this private reverie, will be grand.  
They say that nothing is ever destroyed; merely changed. It must be true of the virus. Alice may no longer be a lark that sings, but perhaps now, she is an owl, tracking her prey on silent wings. The idea makes him feel oddly protective of Leslie. He wants to help her, now. Not only for his own sake, but for hers.  
“This is solely at my discretion,” she says. “If either of you so much as breathes in the wrong direction, I will put you both in solitary, separately, permanently. Do you understand?”  
“Yes, Dr. Thompkins.”  
“I’m going to speak to Jonathan, too. If he doesn’t agree to this, you stay put.”  
“Yes, Dr. Thompkins.”  
“If I let you live together, you’re stuck with each other. I don’t want to hear any sob stories out of either of you.”  
“Yes, Dr. Thompkins.”  
“The arrangement is contingent upon your participation in the medical tests. I conduct them. If I see anything off about your behavior, if you disobey me in any way, it’s over.”  
“Yes, Dr. Thompkins.”  
“I’m going to start you on an anti-psychotic. It’s the same one Jonathan takes. That’ll be something for you to bond over.”  
“Yes, Dr. Thompkins.”  
“First appointment’s tomorrow. You change your room after I do my first test.”  
“Yes, Dr. Thompkins.” It’s beginning to feel like a prayer. A solitary prayer. The last solitary thing he will do.

Very early in the morning, they come for him. It’s another inane test. He knows that Leslie is waiting for him to complain, kick up a fuss, rage, sputter, and he’s happy to disappoint her. “Good morning,” he says to the orderlies, and yawns. They take him into another part of the building, to what looks like an operating theater.  
Oh, dear.  
Leslie’s there, in a surgeon’s uniform. “We’re starting with the lumbar puncture,” she says. “You can take off your clothes.”  
He does as he’s told, and puts on the hospital gown that awaits him, and then, lies on his side on the examining table, when she tells him to do that. He’s draped with clean linens, and someone bares his back and paints it with something cold.  
“You’ll feel a pinch,” Leslie says. “It’s the local anesthetic. Then, you’re going to feel some pressure, but you shouldn’t feel any pain.”  
“I couldn’t be in better hands,” he says.  
It’s more than a pinch.  
What follows is very queer, indeed. It’s like being a ghost in his own body. Or, perhaps, Leslie is the ghost. There is sensation, but it’s muted, and though he doesn’t feel any pain, he has the understanding that what she’s doing to him is quite dramatic. How would it feel without the anesthesia? The thought horrifies and fascinates at the same time. Though, it is equally horrifying and fascinating as is it: the body induced to keep secrets from itself; to lie to itself. It is, actually, not unlike hypnosis. I tell you you don’t feel a thing, and you don’t. Is it more direct to do it with a needle, or simply less artful? Jervis does not know.  
When it’s over, he feels sick. His head pounds, like the lapping of waves against the side of a ship. He’s dizzy and nauseous. Is he, in fact, at sea? Strange tides lap at his shins.  
“The sounding sea,” he murmurs.  
“We’re giving you something for the headache,” Leslie says, and a second later, lifts up his gown, and plunges a needle into his haunch. He moans. “It’s not that bad,” she scolds. How lucky she and James were to find each other.  
Now, it is a warm, gentle sea. It unfolds within him. He feels the sun warming him from the inside. He feels himself pulled down, into the water. He feels it surround him. He wonders how he can still breathe. It’s not very important.  
“How do you know?” Leslie asks. She’s still wearing her mask.  
“Pardon me?” He feels his eyes lose focus as he regards her.  
“How do you that this is worth it? How do you know that he still cares about you?”  
“How does one ever know such things? There is a bell inside, and it rings.”  
She rolls her eyes.  
He wakes up in a strange place. Leslie is gone, but a young woman is sitting next to him. She presses a button, and an orderly appears. She signs to him, and he to her. “Can you stand?” asks the woman, looking at Jervis’ mouth.  
“I think so,” he says.  
He gets out of bed.  
“You can get dressed,” she says. “Any problems, call for help.”  
She leaves, and he dresses, and he’s taken away again.  
It seems as though they walk for a very long time, Jervis, and the orderlies, and the man with the gun. It feels as though a long time has passed since he woke up this morning. Is it the same day? The warmth and swell he felt earlier has dissolved, but he feels strangely serene. They might be delivering him to his doom, but it doesn’t particularly distress him. This is a different part of the hospital. A few of the doors are open, and Jervis can see into the rooms. Two men are playing checkers while another watches. It’s unsettling in its normalcy. Jervis begins to miss the operating theater, with its low lights, and Dr. Thompkins alternating between castigating and pleading with him.  
Pleading with him?  
She seems so very desperate to get at some sort of answer.  
If only she knew the question.  
A door is opened.  
Jonathan looks up.  
He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, reading. The glasses suit him. They make him look stern, inscrutable; perhaps cruel. What goes on in the mind of such a man? One can only imagine. Jonathan lays down his book. Jervis steps into the room. The door is closed.  
“I wondered if it was true,” Jonathan says, standing. “Things don’t change around here.”  
“You may be surprised, yet,” Jervis says, feeling shy. “You resemble your father,” he says, then feels silly. Jonathan knows that he looks like Gerald.  
“Yes. I suppose I do. You’ve seen better days.” He doesn’t say it unkindly.  
“And better days I’ll again see, now in better company.” He puts his arms around Jonathan. He can’t stop himself. He doesn’t want to. He remembers when Jonathan wore burlap and leather and carried a scythe, commanded masses, brought terror everywhere he went. He remembers when Jonathan was in his bed, naked, quivering. He remembers the first time he saw more of Jonathan than a glimpse, a specter in the corner of his eye; the ragged and unnatural figure of Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, as irresistible as he was repulsive. No matter what he looked like, Jonathan always had power. If now, the only power he can be said to have is over Jervis, all the better. All the better if Jervis is Jonathan’s only victim. As long as the torment doesn’t stop.  
He raises his head. He kisses Jonathan. Jonathan’s glasses are knocked askew. Jervis feels Jonathan take them off. He feels Jonathan’s arms encircle him, Jonathan’s hands moving up his back. His fingers dig into the place where Leslie’s needle went. Jonathan couldn’t know. Of course Jonathan knows. Jervis’ body belongs to him. Why should he not know intuitively when its contents have been damaged? It’s not Leslie’s wound anymore. It’s Jonathan’s. Let him push his finger into Jervis, through to the other side. It may be Leslie who extracts, but it’s to Jonathan that Jervis pays this tax.  
After a moment, Jonathan pulls away, straightens Jervis’ clothes, puts his glasses back on. He sits down, and Jervis sits next to him. He takes Jonathan’s hands in his own.  
“How did they get you?” Jonathan asks.  
Jervis looks at the door. He feels himself sigh. “After I lost you, I was lost, myself. I carried on as best I could, but it was difficult. No one knew what had become of you, and there were fewer people to ask. They had begun rebuilding the city. There were fewer places to hide, fewer opportunities. Valeska was languishing in this place, and his partner was useless on her own. Cobblepot had been sent away. Barbara Kean had become a law-abiding citizen. I couldn’t have worked for somebody else if I’d wanted to. I supported myself with robberies, until the GCPD started rounding people up. After that, it was a matter of not attracting attention. I did what I could when I could. They found me sleeping under a bridge.”  
“All’s well that ends well,” Jonathan says, in his old hollow voice, and pats Jervis’ hand.  
“All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”  
Jonathan smiles. It’s the smile that says that he doesn’t exactly understand what Jervis is saying or why he’s saying it, but he’ll bear his lack of understanding gladly. You wouldn’t notice it if you didn’t know what you were looking for.  
At some later time, an orderly brings them dinner. It is vile.  
“I have high blood pressure,” Jervis says. “They also seem to think that I have diabetes, though I don’t see how this could be.”  
Jonathan points to his left eye. “Detached retina.”  
“Is that why you wear glasses now?”  
“No. I just need glasses. Jim Gordon’s the reason for the detached retina. He knocked me out, and I woke up in a hospital, my head wrapped in bandages.”  
Jervis looks at Jonathan’s eye. It seems to be all right, but Jervis still frowns. “I have arthritis, in the hand that Gordon shot. They want to put me on an anti-psychotic.”  
“Everyone’s on an anti-psychotic.”  
“Then, I don’t feel so self-conscious anymore.”  
Jonathan lends him a book, and they read quietly until the lights go out. Once the orderlies have made their pass up and down the corridor, Jervis gets out of bed. He whispers: “The bed is narrow, but would you mind if I were to lie by your side?” He hears Jonathan move. He gets into bed next to Jonathan. “Please don’t take this as an overture. I don’t assume anything.”  
“No,” Jonathan says in that oddly meditative tone he will take, “you were never like that with me.”  
“But also understand that I am yours to command. I’ll do anything you wish. You have only to name it.”  
Jonathan’s mouth brushes against his. “I know. I’m tired, and I want to sleep. But I know. And I did miss you.”  
Jervis takes Jonathan’s hand in his. He finds Jonathan’s pulse. It beats down on him. It treads him into oblivion.

Next is bone marrow extraction. It’s much the same procedure; for Jervis, anyway. He lies on his side. Behind him, all manner of mysteries are conducted. When it’s over, the pain is voluptuous. He actually weeps. If he were the type, he’d mistake it for religious ecstasy.  
“I’m not giving you more drugs,” Leslie says.  
He looks up at her. He can’t even be angry, or outraged. He’s too confused, by everything. Most of the times that he’s been hurt, he had the flowery derangement of adrenaline to cushion the blow, or he was simply knocked out. Having something done to him in a series of measured, reasonable steps, in a quiet, clean place, is… wrong. The stuff of civility is the filth of this place. Again, he longs for the old days, when the inmates did whatever they wanted, and the guards were only bothered when it cut into their cigarette break. If Jervis had known then, how good it was, he would have tossed propriety aside. He would have taken that looming, cadaverous figure wrapped in rags in his arms, and begged for anything that Jonathan wanted to give him. He would have fallen on his knees. He feels, now, that he understands Poison Ivy very well. The world is only beautiful when it’s wild. It’s only right when it’s wild. Let Leslie penetrate him the way that God intended. Who is the crueler, she or James? He with the lust for blood so thick in his veins that they must want for blood of their own. She with her intellect so vicious, so cold. It hits him, then, a strange thing: she isn’t so different from Jonathan.  
For that, alone, he can endure. He takes a long, deep breath. He stills himself. He dries his tears. He lies quietly until the nurse tells him he can go back to his room.  
There, Jonathan awaits him.  
He lies down in Jonathan’s bed, with Jonathan behind him, the heat of Jonathan’s body against Jervis’ injuries. Now, the pain is to be prized. It’s something he’s brought home for Jonathan to admire. It’s like the old days.  
“Happy days will be here again,” Jervis says.  
“Yes,” Jonathan says.  
“The hows and whens have yet to be determined,” Jervis murmurs, already falling asleep, “but that the day is coming is certain.”  
“Yes,” Jonathan repeats, wrapping his arm around Jervis. His hand on Jervis’ hand. “Yes.”  
At night, by the corridor light, that has the quality of a watery gruel, Jonathan takes off Jervis’ clothes, inspects the marks left behind.  
“Why does she want spinal fluid?” Jonathan whispers.  
“I don’t know the answer to that question, but it was I who made the suggestion. Whether she seeks to take what she can take, or she has something in mind, we have yet to find.”  
“It’s… interesting,” Jonathan says softly, his hands on Jervis’ back, framing the wound.  
“I think so, too. There is a mystery unraveling, on this strange new path we find ourselves traveling.”  
Jonathan turns him around, kisses him. He reaches under Jonathan’s shirt, feels the heat and mass of his body. Jonathan used to be thin as a rail. He’s filled out a little. This is good. The bones beneath his skin are now a suggestion, not a declaration. There is something to divine, to imagine. Jervis always worried that Jonathan didn’t eat enough. Jonathan’s skin is as soft as velvet. His heart pounds. Jonathan pulls away to undress. They embrace in the darkest corner of the room, next to the stainless steel sink. As he kneels, Jervis’ knees make a sound like a dry twig snapping. He’s inexpert from idleness, but hopefully, he makes up for it with enthusiasm. Just before Jonathan comes, Jervis takes his mouth away, finishes him manually, lets Jonathan ejaculate on his neck.  
There, in the dark, a puff of laughter.  
Jonathan helps him up. Licks his neck clean. Kisses his mouth. Holds him tightly. They move to Jonathan’s bed. Jervis pulls Jonathan on top of him. Jervis doesn’t really need anything at all. Just for Jonathan to press against him, to hold him in place. It’s the first time in years that Jervis has had an orgasm when he was awake.


	2. Eaten By the Monster of Love

“It’s not that I don’t trust you to take the medication on your own,” Leslie says, drawing liquid from the vial with a syringe, “but I don’t.”  
She sticks Jervis. He thinks of a dartboard.  
“You know,” she says, as she withdraws the needle, “you’re a much better patient than I thought you’d be.” She slaps a bandaid on his hip, and motions for him to pull up his pants.  
“Thank you, Dr. Thompkins. Of course, you’re every bit the professional I’ve always known you to be.”  
“I’m not sure you mean that as a compliment, but I’ll take it as one.” She disposes of the needle.  
“I do mean it as a compliment. I do.”  
“How do you think this course of treatment is working for you?”  
He feels very… organized. Dry and stiff on the inside, like paper. It’s very easy to do things, now. His nerves are pulled no less taut, but the anxiety is redirected, somehow. It’s useful in a way that it’s never been. Alice used to say that he fretted. He’s always had the habit of wringing his hands. It no longer feels necessary. His thoughts were always full, thick, congested, overstuffed, only his immediate source of concern distinguishing itself. It was easiest to focus on what made him angry, or sad, what he needed or wanted. Now, all is clear; all in a line. He still longs to revenge himself upon Jim Gordon. He still misses Alice to an extent that is painful. He still dreams of the day, the inevitable but delayed day when he and Jonathan free themselves from this sterile little hell and stamp the imprint of themselves onto a new and shining Gotham. He wonders how this could make him less dangerous. He says: “I feel very calm.”  
But the truth is that he had been feeling this way for a while, even before Leslie began his course of anti-psychotic medication. It must be something about this place. The air in it, as crisp and flat as an envelope. Perhaps they’ve been dosing him all along. Perhaps his visits to Leslie for shots are just a piece of theater. For her amusement. The thought, he finds, pleases him.  
“Calm.” Leslie considers this. “Could you elaborate?”  
“It’s difficult to explain.” He folds his hands in his lap. “I always felt a sort of, I suppose you might call it a compulsion, but now, I find that I no longer do.”  
“A compulsion toward what?”  
“Well, to hurt people, I suppose. I never knew precisely why, just that they stood between myself and something I wanted, and in hurting them, I felt as though I’d brought myself closer to it. Even as I must have been pushing it further out of my reach.”  
“How’s that?”  
Theater. “We all want the same things, Dr. Thompkins, in the most basic sense. The thing every one of us wants most is to be loved. Who, though, could love a monster?”  
In her gaze, there is a challenge. A terrible, wonderful challenge. Jervis holds his features in repose.  
“I’m going to take some more blood,” she says. “I want to get a baseline of your levels after treatment. If I have to adjust your dosage later on, this will help to guide me.”  
“By all means,” he says, and puts out his arm.  
Leslie holds up the test tube of blood, ruby-red against the light, examining its contents, though she can’t possibly see anything unusual in there. Not with the naked eye.  
It is then that Jervis knows.  
Though he doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when.  
He knows with total certainty that Alice will live again.

*

An interlude:

This is madness.  
No, it’s progress. This was always a graduated plan. Rebuilding Arkham was just the first step.  
Yeah, and it’s only been standing for five years. This is too much, too soon. Think about what you’re saying.  
You think I haven’t thought this through?  
I don’t think you’ve considered what this could mean. For the city. For your reputation.  
That’s why it’s so important. This city needs change. I know it. Harvey knows it. In your heart, you know it, too. The old ways weren’t working. You saw what the old ways brought us. It’s time to move on from crime and punishment, incarceration, retribution. It’s time for rehabilitation.  
Harvey, you can’t be all right with this.  
It’s risky, certainly. It’s a risk to all of us. If Lee’s plan fails, she loses Arkham, I lose the election, you almost certainly lose the GCPD. All three of us lose the public trust. If it works, though, we go down in history as the people who helped Gotham rise from the ashes and never look back.  
Let me talk to Bruce.  
What does Bruce Wayne have to do with any of this?  
His money’s paying for this.  
Barbara’s is, too. You wanna have that conversation with her, or should I? She might have some opinions about the whether or not people who have been in Arkham can be reintegrated into society.  
You’re both wrong. They may have fronted the money, but this is ultimately at the taxpayers’ expense. And they’ll decide whether or not they’re getting value for their money. And they’ll express their opinion by voting. That’s how the system works.  
You really have that much faith in the system.  
Don’t sound so surprised. That system’s made us, all three of us, for better or worse. Now, the fact is that Lee and I don’t need your approval. The DA’s office works with the GCPD, not for it, and Arkham is controlled by the public health department. We’d like your cooperation, but we can live without it. Win or lose, we at least had the guts and imagination to try something new. If you don’t stand with us, you risk confirming peoples’ worst suspicions about the GCPD: it’s amateur hour, stocked with dinosaurs and thugs, more interested in busting heads than in helping people.  
Damn you, Harvey.  
Maybe. Maybe not. Roll the dice, and find out.  
Fine. I’m not going to sign my name to this, but I won’t stand in your way. The first sign of trouble, though, I go straight to Bruce, and he buys off the few members of Arkham’s board of directors you haven’t managed to brainwash to stop this.  
‘Brainwash’? Wow. Sometimes I think you miss Hugo Strange.  
Lee…  
Oh, come on you two. Save the marital discord for another time. This is a cause for celebration. We’re going to do something remarkable. Something bold. Something new.


	3. Grumpy Old Men

Disappointed?  
“It’s on a probationary basis, of course. More like parole, actually. You have to meet with a probation officer and a psychiatrist daily. They’re on-staff in the place where you’ll be living, so you won’t have to worry about transportation. At the first sign of anything suspicious, they have the authority to ship you back here. There are no second chances. You’ll be tested, for illegal drugs, and to make sure that you aren’t tampering with the dosage of your medication. The shots will be administered by a member of staff until I’m confident that you can be trusted to take pills. You’ll be allowed to leave the building, but you can’t drive a car, and you aren’t allowed outside of a certain radius, which I will determine. No contacting old associates, obviously. If anyone from your past tries to contact you, you’re to report it immediately. Jonathan’s not allowed to possess certain chemicals. Obviously, Jervis owning a pocket watch is out of the question. Our records show that you didn’t finish high school,” Leslie looks at Jervis, “so you’ll be enrolled in the on-site G.E.D. program next fall. Jonathan, if you wish, you can come back here to continue your course of study. I know that you’re taking some science courses. In time, I’ll see about a transfer to city college.”  
“Thank you,” Jonathan says tunelessly. It’s the voice he uses when he’s annoyed, but Dr. Thompkins wouldn’t know that.  
“If I’m satisfied that you’re adjusting well to your new surroundings, we can discuss gainful employment. I’ve arranged for a larger room, because there are two of you. It has a bathroom, a kitchen.”  
“Will I be allowed the use of a sewing machine?” Jervis asks.  
“I’ll get back to you,” Leslie says, suspicion creeping into her voice. “This is still pending, by the way, so if either of you gives me reason to doubt my decision, I cancel your honeymoon. Do you understand?”  
“Yes, Dr. Thompkins,” they say in unison.  
“That’s it, then,” Leslie says.  
Jonathan has one of his classes, so Jervis asks to go to the library. There are other patients there, so he has to stay in his room, but he’s given a newspaper. Oh. It’s that rag, The Gotham Herald. The paper isn’t even of good quality. Frowning, he rubs a page between his fingers. “JACK BOXED” shrieks the front page; for some reason, Jerome Valeska’s mugshot appears below the headline.  
Suspected, but not known until now, was the identity of the criminal commonly known as ‘Jack’, this being Jeremiah Valeska, sometime thought to be dead. Well, that explains the photo. The paper confused their Valeskas. Apparently, Jeremiah’s on his way back to Arkham, if not already under its roof. What a feather in Leslie’s cap, Jervis thinks, amused in a cold sort of way.  
Bitterly.  
She’s snatching victory from people all over the place. She must not understand.  
These things take time. It’s only been two years since Jervis was brought here. Two years is not very long to formulate a plan for escape, especially not under such new and strange circumstances. In the old days, it would have been a trifle, but in the old days, chaos was the grease that turned the wheels of Arkham. This isn’t Arkham. It never will be to Jervis, no matter how long he stays here. Arkham was dank and cold, and smelt of ordure and carbolic acid. At night, the screams and laughter were like music. Sometimes, the inmates spoke calmly, nonsense and fantasia that was like poetry. This place is comfortable and clean and blank and silent, and smells of nothing. It can drive a person mad, the smell of nothing. If not for the scent of Jonathan’s skin, Jervis would have surely lost his mind.  
Jonathan must be furious. His anger is like a fissure in the ocean floor, down in the depths. Everything about him is like this: deep, and slow, and tremendous. He was on the verge of something brilliant. They both were. If only Leslie weren’t so dead set on taking it away from them.  
When Jonathan returns, he’s glum, withdrawn. He sits down next to Jervis, and Jervis takes his hand. Defeat would have been hard, but it’s part of life. Death would have been glorious, if they’d met it together. This is neither death, nor life. It’s not victory. It’s not freedom. It’s not even truly defeat, because they hadn’t known that there was something to fight against. It’s something else.  
At night, in the dark, he wraps around Jonathan, naked, feverish. Mad, perhaps. Deranged. There must be something real in this world. There must be something left of them. He thinks of the glassy coolness of the expression of someone in his thrall. He thinks of feeling the person move as directed, how they felt like a part of Jervis. He thinks of the sound a body makes falling to the floor. He thinks of Jonathan’s garments stained almost black with blood. He thinks of the way that Jonathan made people scream. He turns Jonathan onto his back. He kisses Jonathan’s mouth, feels the way his body moves. Jonathan must be thinking of the same things. He slips his hand between Jonathan’s legs. He whispers in Jonathan’s ear: “Someday, soon, the day will come when we take from Gotham our due in blood. Those that denied us will pay and pay as we, together, play and slay.”  
For once, Jervis is tired of speaking. He kisses Jonathan’s neck, moves down Jonathan’s body, sucks his cock.  
He spits onto the blanket of his unoccupied bed.  
Let the laundry room staff have a thrill.

*

It’s another little hell of Leslie’s. The building is new, painted a shade pink that is both medicinal and confectionery. Across the street is a cheery little café, of the kind frequented by a particularly unimaginative sort of young person. Down the street, there is a park. A person walking a dog passes by, gives a blandly happy, “Hello”. The dog sniffs first Jervis then Jonathan. Jonathan looks at Jervis, his expression blank, the blankness revealing more to Jervis than any set of Jonathan’s features could.  
In the lobby, they’re met by a woman dressed like a real estate agent with the manner of a nurse of terminal patients. That kind of jollity only springs from pity, from disgust; from the absolute certainty that she is nothing like her charges. She must be completely dead inside, Jervis thinks indifferently. There’d be no mind to possess. Perhaps she’d cut her own throat if he simply asked her politely.  
Her name is Paula. She’s the in-take coordinator. Leslie has told her so much about both of them. Won’t they please join her in her office? They do, followed by two large men. The armed guards here carry concealed weapons.  
Yesterday, the front page of the Gotham Herald bellowed, “SHE FEELS CON-FIDENT”, a photo of Leslie at Arkham’s reopening ceremony under the headline. The story was an hysterical froth, no-doubt meant to drive its readers out onto the streets with torches and pitchforks. When did people start calling Jervis “The Mad Hatter”? For a moment, he wasn’t sure that it was he to whom the article was referring. Quite a strange thing, to be known by a name, and not be aware of it. Perhaps, he thought, staring at the words, it suited him. Apparently, Leslie’s plan to let Jonathan and Jervis back into society is fully supported by District Attorney, Harvey Dent, a risky move, this close to another election, but one he thinks will be rewarded. Commissioner James Gordon remains skeptical, and promises swift action, should Jonathan and Jervis resume their old ways. Well. You can’t win them all.  
They sign the requisite forms, accept the necessary literature, answer when questioned, nod when lectured to. After that, Paula gives them a brief orientation, guiding them around the building, the security guards in tow.  
“And here is your room,” she says, far too casually. She wouldn’t be the first person less unnerved by criminal insanity than by sodomy.  
The door is opened. The wallpaper is pale blue.  
“Blue is such a calming color,” Paula muses.  
Jervis looks toward the window. Would it be better to throw himself or Paula out of it? Paula. Obviously, Paula. “What a lovely view,” he says.  
“Isn’t it?” She smiles, all dimples and front teeth.  
It annoys Jervis, how much he’s allowed her to annoy him.  
“We’ll just leave you two to get settled-in. Dinner is served from five to nine. I don’t know what your schedule was at Arkham, so you can come down whenever it feels right.”  
The door closes.  
Jervis locks it. He closes the window, and draws the curtains. Thankfully, the overhead light is faint. It flickers. “A dim bulb,” Jervis says.  
Jonathan smiles a little.  
At dinner, Jervis is invited to try the sugar-free chocolate cake. “That sounds tempting,” he says, “but I couldn’t eat another thing.” The under-salted halibut was like wallpaper paste.  
Jonathan also declines dessert.  
Jervis recognizes the dishwasher from Arkham. In her former life, she’d called herself Mistress Ligeia, and claimed to have power over life and death. At least they let her wear jewelry in this place. A charm in the shape of a pentagram bobs on its chain as she takes their plates. “Everyone has a job here,” Paula threatened. Jonathan will be fine. He has an education. They’ll probably have Jervis pulling weeds in the backyard.  
“I hate fucking sugar-free desserts,” Jervis whispers to Jonathan when they’re in their room.  
“You only like the real thing,” Jonathan says in his old voice, the voice like a howling draft in a decrepit old shack. How Jervis misses the old days. He kisses Jonathan.  
They turn off the light and take off their clothes. They lie in bed, their arms around each other.  
“This is a dreadful place,” Jervis whispers.  
“That’s an insult to dreadful places.”  
Jervis sighs. “You’re quite right.”  
In the morning, they’re obliged to sign up for chores.  
Jervis was right. The lady behind the desk immediately suggests that Jonathan teach a remedial science class.  
“It’s only Physics, I’m afraid,” she says, and makes a face. “You can’t hurt anyone with Physics.” Jervis dislikes her slightly less than he does Paula.  
“What about you, honey?” she asks Jervis, looking bored.  
“I have arthritis,” Jervis says.  
“And diabetes,” Jonathan says. “High blood pressure...”  
The lady looks strangely wistful. “Tell me about it. I can’t climb a flight of stairs without one of those guys who help you up a mountain. How about the library? How are you for shelving books?”  
Jervis gives her a dazzling smile. “That suits me to a T.”  
“Fabulous,” she says, makes a note, and waves them on.  
Jonathan has classes from morning to late afternoon, during which time Jervis works in the library. It’s a lot of up-and-down on the ladder, and by the time he’s relieved, he’s exhausted. He goes back to his room, and falls onto the bed. He’s dozing when he hears the door unlock. He sits up. Jonathan comes in, stooped and encumbered by books and papers. Jervis closes the door behind him.  
“I have to grade papers,” Jonathan says, looking lost.  
“Can I help?”  
“If you’d be so kind.”  
“Let me make a pot of tea first.”  
Together, they grade papers until dinner. The penmanship of some of the students is hellish. Jervis passes those papers to Jonathan, who has no problems with them- but Jonathan’s handwriting is also nearly illegible. Jonathan merely writes the number of correct answers over the number of total questions, so Jervis adds the letter grade. People should know what they’ve done, and what it means.  
“Perhaps you should grade on a curve,” Jervis suggests.  
“Gerald said that grading on a curve rewards mediocrity,” Jonathan muses. Then, without feeling, “Gerald said a lot of things.” Jervis takes Jonathan’s hand.  
After dinner, they stay up a little. Jonathan looks at the textbook he’s expected to teach from, pronouncing it, “Substandard.” Jervis picks up the newspaper.  
“MURDER HE SQUAWKED” wails the front page. Below the headline is an unflattering photo of Oswald Cobblepot.  
“My, my,” Jervis tuts. “Such foul deeds.”  
Looking over his shoulder, Jonathan says, hollow, glacial, spectral, “The whole world’s gone mad.”  
Jervis looks up at Jonathan. They laugh.

_MURDER HE SQUAWKED_  
_Industrial titan, one-time mayor of Gotham and figure of general infamy, Oswald “The Penguin” Cobblepot gave a press conference today, in which he announced that he’s planning to write his memoirs. Ever the showman, standing on the stage of his nightclub, the new Iceberg Lounge, dressed in his customary top hat and tails, flanked by private security, Cobblepot promised revelations that would shock the city to its core. As those in attendance sat speechless, he offered as a preview a litany of crime and mayhem that reads as half Armageddon and half Gothic novel. The most startling among Cobblepot’s allegations is that Commissioner of the GCPD, James Gordon has committed several murders in cold blood, including some of Gotham’s most sensational unsolved cases, at least one a murder for hire. Cobblepot also claimed a connection between the Gordon family and the shadowy group known only as “The Court”, which was responsible for unleashing onto Gotham the Alice Tetch virus, while hinting at the possibility that Peter Gordon, Gotham’s District Attorney until his death, was not James’ biological father. There was also the insinuation of a romantic and professional entanglement between James Gordon and Sofia Falcone, daughter of deceased mob boss, Carmine Falcone, who had been in a coma for the better part of a decade after being shot by an unknown assailant, and is now recovering in a private clinic upstate. To top it all off, Cobblepot flat out stated that James Gordon is the father of Barbara “Babs” Kean, daughter of businesswoman and philanthropist, Barbara Kean, and suggested that Gordon’s relationship with the elder Kean is what has allowed her to avoid prosecution for various misdeeds, past and possibly present. Of Kean’s partner in the defunct Sirens nightclub, Tabitha Galavan (deceased), Cobblepot alleged that Tabitha had murdered his mother, Gertrud Kapelput, at the behest of her brother, another of Gotham’s former mayors, Theo (deceased), and that the GCPD had been aware of this but refused to bring charges against either Galavan. Cobblepot went on to claim that decorated veteran of the GCPD, Detective Harvey Bullock carried on a romantic relationship with deceased gangster, Maria Mercedes “Fish” Mooney, as well as working for her unofficially. Furthermore, Cobblepot accused notorious criminal, Jerome Valeska (deceased) of sexually assaulting him when they were both incarcerated in the old Arkham Asylum. If that’s what Cobblepot is giving out for free, what he’s charging for must be unbelievable.  
Jeremiah Valeska, brother of Jerome, now a patient at the new Arkham Psychiatric Hospital, has threatened to sue Cobblepot for defamation. A representative for Sofia Falcone pronounced Cobblepot’s allegation of anything untoward or criminal between her and James Gordon “Utter lies, of the worst kind, spoken by a known underworld figure against a member of one of Gotham’s oldest families, now in no position to defend herself,” and promised legal action. Socialite, Silver St. Cloud, niece of Tabitha and Theo Galavan, was heard to exclaim tearfully, when questioned by reporters, “Lies! It’s all lies!” Detective Bullock’s response was less emotive, but no less decisive; to a reporter from another publication, Bullock said, “F*** off, scumbag.” The District Attorney’s office released a statement assuring the public that all credible claims of criminal activity would be thoroughly investigated. Ms. Kean, Commissioner Gordon, and Dr. Leslie Thompkins could not be reached for comment._

*

An interlude:

Is it true?  
No, Harvey. It’s not true.  
Are you going to answer me for yourself, Jim, or are you going to let Lee fight this battle for you, too?  
Get out, Harvey.  
If I find out that one iota of this is true, Jim, I drop you like a ton of bricks.  
Fuck you, Dent.  
That an official statement, Jim?  
Harvey. Now.  
Lee-  
We’ll get a lawyer, Jim. We’ll fight this.  
He has to have proof, if he’s saying these things in public.  
Proof of what? What proof can he possibly have, of any of it, so many years later?  
It doesn’t matter. It looks bad.  
So, it looks bad. This isn’t the first time that’s looked bad for us. If he can go to the press, so can we. I’ll call Valerie Vale. She still owes me a favor.  
He’s going to bury me, Lee. Oswald’s going to bury me.  
Why, Jim? Why now? Why didn’t he do this years ago?  
He hates me.  
And he probably has reason to, but why now?  
I don’t know.  
We’ll do an exclusive interview with Valerie. I’ll call Barbara, get the name of a good lawyer. She must know a few…  
Lee, I can’t do this.  
Shut up, Jim. I have to think.  
It’s everything. Everything I’ve done. I can’t deny it anymore.  
Have a drink. Calm down.  
I’m a dead man. There’s no coming back from this.  
No, Jim. You’re wrong. You will come back from this, stronger than ever.  
How?  
I have a plan.

*

This is madness.  
That’s the point.  
Never mind me. This will destroy you.  
No. It’ll damage me. It won’t destroy me. I’ll look bad. Harvey will look bad. You’ll look like a hero. You were right, all along. Gotham hasn’t changed. Nothing changes.  
I can’t let you do this.  
No, Jim. The only choice you have is the same one you’ve always had: do you want to live, or do you want to die? If you want to die, there’s your gun, right there. Do what you’ve wanted to do for years.  
Lee.  
But if you want to live, just be the man we always knew you were. Jim Gordon, protector of Gotham.  
I’m not the protector of Gotham.  
When has that ever mattered?  
Lee…  
This is the one thing I can’t do for you, Jim. Make a choice. Right now.  
Lee. I can’t…  
So, you want to live. Good choice. Have another drink. I’m going to make some phone calls.


	4. Something Scary

When they return from dinner, it’s waiting.  
“Did you order away for something?” Jervis asks. “For one of your classes, perhaps?”  
“No.” Jonathan comes over, and regards the package in Jervis’ hands. “There’s no return address.”  
Jervis holds it up to his head. “It’s ticking.” He feels his breath hitch. “Do I dare?”  
“What’s the worst that can happen? It blows us to pieces?”  
“Oh, but to die together is no death, at all.”  
Jonathan smiles fondly. “Open it,” he says softly.  
It’s a very handsome pocket watch. And a burlap sack with two holes cut into it. And a card. On the card is an address. Ace Chemicals.  
The phone rings. Jervis looks at Jonathan. Jervis tightens his grip around the watch. Slowly, they walk to the table where the phone rests. Jervis picks up the phone, and holds it so that Jonathan can listen.  
“You received my gift,” says a woman’s voice.  
The voice-  
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Ms. Kean?”  
“Can the niceties. Are you ready to do some work? I mean, some real work; not teaching idiots about Newton getting beaned by an apple, or re-folding old newspapers.”  
“And what kind of work would that be?”  
“You know what kind.”  
“What must we do?”  
“Memorize the address on the card, then flush it. When you get there, a friend of mine will help Johnny-boy get what he needs to make all sorts of nasty things. We’ll go from there.”  
“What do you think that we owe you for your kindness?”  
“Oh, you’ll like what I’m going to ask you to do. But you have to understand: after this, there’s no going back. No halfway house, no Arkham, nothing. The police will have orders to shoot you on sight. My guess is, you won’t live out the month. But before they catch up to you-”  
“Imagine what we could do,” Jervis whispers.  
“Exactly. Go to the address. Get what you need. Do me one tiny favor. Then, live the rest of your life together, however long it may be.”  
She hangs up.  
Jervis looks at Jonathan. Jonathan pulls him close. He caresses Jonathan’s face. Jonathan kisses him. When they separate, they’re both laughing.  
God damn it-- Jervis feels young again.


End file.
